


Sweated Sheets and Cold Tea

by orphan_account



Category: James Bond (Craig movies), Skyfall (2012) - Fandom
Genre: F/M, Fic War 2013, M/M, for a prompt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-23
Updated: 2013-06-23
Packaged: 2017-12-15 23:19:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,222
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/855139
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When they kiss, it happens just like in the movies – pouring rain on a crowded sidewalk, passersby studiously ignoring them, Bond's lips are cold, but his tongue is warm and he claims Q’s mouth without hesitation. Q cannot help but think of <em>deus ex Moneypenny</em>, and he knows he'll have to make her pay for it somehow.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sweated Sheets and Cold Tea

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Random_Nexus](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Random_Nexus/gifts).



> For Tumblr's Fic War 2013. Spoilery prompt given at the end of the fic.

When they kiss, it happens just like in the movies – pouring rain on a crowded sidewalk, passersby studiously ignoring them, Bond's lips are cold, but his tongue is warm and he claims Q’s mouth without hesitation. Q cannot help but think of _deus ex Moneypenny_ , and he knows he'll have to make her pay for it somehow, but then Bond's hands tighten around him and conscious thought flees. 

They're silent in the cab to Q's flat – he knows he can't ask Bond to take him to his, not yet, anyway – two people wrapped up each other, stealing kisses, sitting much too close as the driver smirks at them in his rearview mirror.

Inside the flat, it's the slip-slide of tongues, the rustle of clothing, cold hands, warm mouths, as Bond bites at Q’s neck and the juncture of his shoulder before Bond falls to his knees and reaches for Q's belt. Q thinks he might join him on the floor but for the look in Bond's eyes as he unbuckles, loosens, unzips Q's trousers and pulls his cock from his pants. 

Bond's hair is unaccountably soft in Q's grip – the thought of James Bond and _conditioner_ flits through Q's head, and he chokes back a laugh that turns into a groan as Bond's tongue circles the head of his cock, and fuck, but the man is _good_.

"You want to suck my cock," Q murmurs, running his hand through Bond's hair, his sensitive fingers finding a scar just below the crown – his mind flashes to an image of blond hair, matted blood, but before he can draw back, Bond does something with his tongue and Q's vision whites out. He groans, almost begs, but Bond pulls off and fuck if it isn't…

"Please," he says.

* * *

Every scar, every curve of muscle and bone, Q makes sure he's reached each place with his lips, teeth, tongue, fingers. He inhales the scent of Bond's deodorant, the smell of his drycleaner's chemicals on his thighs. He worships the taste of his fingers, the flavor of the joint between his thumb and forefinger – gunmetal, plastic, the dark, musk of Bond himself, the ridges of his balls, the smooth scar tissue and the dry skin above at the base of his cock. He presses Bond's cock into his mouth and sucks hard, the taste of precome and sweat. He hears Bond groan above him, feels the sofa shift, closes his eyes and breathes in.

* * *

In bed, Bond is fucking himself on Q's cock, his face a rictus of pleasure and desire. Q's fingers draw blunt lines down Bond's back, the slip-slide of skin and sweat, the taste as he bites at Bond’s shoulder, the stuttered litany of profanity falling from Bond's lips, or is that his voice, Q can't be arsed to care because Bond is tight around him, his surrender to Q, gorgeous and so fucking perfect. 

Q fucks up into him and Bond grabs his cock, bringing his head down, his forehead pressed against Q's as he jerks himself harder and faster until his spills over his hand and Q's stomach and tightens around his cock as Q manages to rise up and topple them over (it's a miracle they manage to stay together) and begins to thrust into him, skin on skin and the slide of his cock. Then Q is coming and coming and the world narrows to a point and Bond's fingers are digging into his hips and fuck but he'll have bruises there tomorrow and he thinks as he slides back to the reality of sweat and spunk and cooling bodies and respiration – huge gasps of air that he wants Bond to fuck him slowly next time, that next time he'll make Bond lie behind him, fucking into him until Q can't remember his own name. 

"Ok?" he asks as he slides out, and Bond nods and grunts with the motion. The bed is ruined – the sheets a write-off, Q's fastidiousness extends only so far, he's not about to waste a fortune in washing tablets, and it's a matter of shuffling – and it turns out that Bond doesn't just laugh, but knows how to _giggle_ \- and then the bed is stripped bare, a pile of wrecked sheets and towels shoved into the next room. The duvet remains unscathed, and there's a brief tussle, all sloppy limbs and half-hearted tugs for pillows as Q feels sleep pulling him down, down, down.

* * *

The watery morning sunlight breaks through the clouds, and it's a punch to the eye as Q wakes, head pounding, pants and duvet tangled around his legs, sticky and clinging to him as if he were still seventeen, the smell of cheap lager, body odor, and cigarettes and spunk around him like a teenaged lover's perfume. 

But he's not seventeen anymore, and the only evidence of excess from last night is the steady throb of his head from too little sleep, too much caffeine and nicotine from stolen cigarettes inhaled too quickly outside his flat, not enough water and too many hours staring at the computer. 

And the tag-end of a dream – of muscle and bone and cock and arsehole and the slick of tongues and lube and come and the groans of Bond whose lovemaking routine Q can recall in his sleep he's heard it so many times. 

Well, that would explain the tangled duvet and the sweat. Q manages to haul himself upright, fighting the pull of vertigo, knowing that if he stays horizontal, he'll not feel any better. The stumble to the bathroom might as well be Napoleon's retreat from Russia for all the pounding in his head in time with his heartbeat.

Too many paracetamol later, dry swallowed and sticking in his throat, he sits at his desk, still in his pants, trying to focus on the too-bright screen before him when his sluggish brain points out to him that the flat is silent but for him. 

He's alone.

* * *

"Try not to break it, 007." Too late, of course, the sickening crunch of plastic and metal sounds loudly in Q's ear.

"Doesn't it occur to you that you should test these a bit more… _forcefully_?" Bond quips back at him. "You're the one who told me to 'put my back into it'."

Q sighs and reaches for his tea. 

"I have you in sight, 007," he says. "Prepare for extraction. Well done."

He taps the mic and hears the thud-thud-thud of the rotors and Bond's grunted, "Of course it's well done." 

He watches 007 slide into the helicopter, turning his face – smeared with blood (not his) and dirt and grime – to the in-chopper camera and grin. The woman beside him, beautiful, blonde this time, and practically surgically attached to his arm, turns to him, and Bond points to the camera. Q can read his lips as she laughs and falls back into Bond's embrace as they take off. As Q cuts the feed, he sees her wave as Bond winks at the camera and throws his shirt over it.

Q licks his lips and reaches for his tea again. Q-branch is silent but for the tinny sounds of the helicopter and Bond and the woman coming from the earwig, still on, lying between Q's stylus and a stack of paperwork awaiting his signature.

His tea is cold.

**Author's Note:**

> For Random_Nexus' prompt: Two main characters from your fav fandom finally have the mad, passionate sex they and everyone have been wanting. It's awesome, tender, wild, and amazing. Morning after - one of them comes to the realization that it was either a very realistic dream or a psychotic break and they've 'cured' themselves by embracing it (or whatever plot device you choose) - but now they're alone. Kill us with that however you please. I'm buying the jumbo kleenex boxes right now.
> 
> As usual, Bluestocking79 and PJ are my beta-reading heroes!


End file.
